


Pearls And Men

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon reference!, Case Fic, First Kiss, M/M, Snarky John, Tuxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: A case of theft takes Sherlock and John to a fancy ball.  Gunfire ensues and truths are revealed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one was fun, because I got to play with one of the famous moments in canon. Hope you think it works!
> 
> This is my 160th Sherlock story posted.

As usual, it all began with a distressed client bringing his problem into 221B, hoping that the phenomenon that was Sherlock Holmes could set the world right again. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly pissed off by the resident genius, it was tempting to ask the client if he or she really wanted to entrust their money or happiness or life to a man who was obsessed with how his socks were arranged, who would forget to eat unless someone [me] set actual food in front of him and who thought that the very emotions that had brought someone to our door in the first place were banal or tedious or irrelevant. Most days, all three.

I was in a bit of a whinging mood that morning, apparently.

Ear lobes in the bathroom sink will do that to a person.

Apparently Sherlock, master detective, had managed to deduce that his stenographer/blogger/assistant/whatever had stopped paying attention and he sent me a glare. I glared back, but then just lifted my pen again.

“Do you have any bloody idea how much the necklace is worth?” The man sitting in the client chair was red-faced with indignation. Or maybe it was his blood pressure, since he had to be at least 7 stone over-weight. We had heard him struggling to get his bulk up the seventeen steps. I made a note of all that; not that it was particularly relevant, but it showed my keen interest.

Sherlock, of course, was allowed to look bored. He was peering at the distressed man over pyramided fingers. “I have no idea,” he said. “And I could not care less.”

“Two million bloody pounds!” Sir Henry shouted, as if he thought either the figure itself or the fact it had been shouted loudly enough that I was sure Mrs Hudson downstairs had heard would make Sherlock care. 

Not that the sound of voices raised in anger coming from this flat was any new thing. Well, take last night, for instance. On second thought, never mind. It was not as if I didn’t know all too well that shouting at Sherlock Holmes would gain one absolutely nothing. Except the sight of a mightily aggrieved spine as the great man burrowed into the sofa.

But that was neither here nor there at the moment.

“Two. Million. Pounds.” Apparently the man thought dramatic repetition would do the trick. Ha.

I couldn’t help my snicker. The client didn’t notice, but Sherlock did, of course, and he shot me a stern glance. No one else, I am pretty sure, would have noticed the slight twinkle in the silvery-green gaze.

“So can you find the damned thing or not?” Sir Henry said

Of course he could.

Despite his failings [which, in retrospect, I probably should not have enumerated quite so loudly the previous evening] I always have faith in Sherlock’s skills as a detective.

 

After following a trail that took us to Golders Green and Oxford, from the penthouse flat of some Russian oligarch to a pensioner’s room in a rather shabby retirement home, with many stops in between, we were finally at the end.

Or so Sherlock was convinced.

And, as usual, I believed him.

It had all brought us to this very large ballroom [think Versailles], which was filled with the crème de la crème of Ascot society. Judging by appearances, it doesn’t get much creamier than that.

Which explained why I had been forced into the damned monkey suit, which I always think makes me look like the waiter in a not particularly good French restaurant. I kept tugging at the too tight, overly starched collar. Every time I did that it earned me a frown from across the room.

The git, of course, looked as if he had been born to don formalwear. As if the suit had just been poured over his lanky form to cover him perfectly. And thinking things like that would set me even further along the road to madness, a road upon which I had been trudging for a year, ever since I first moved onto Baker Street.

By mutual agreement, we were both ignoring the presence at the party of another Holmes. It was supposedly a coincidence. Even I didn’t really believe that, credulous as they always claim I am. My guess was that Sir Henry was some bigwig at Whitehall.

We had separated just after arriving at the ball [and that is what they called it. Not a party. Not a dance. It was a ball.] Now we were edging our way around the room looking for suspicious behaviour. Frankly, I thought the whole thing was pretty dicey. I mean, a _ball?_

The client was here, of course, with his wife. She was not really what I had expected her to be. She did have [fake] blonde hair twisted into some elaborate style, but beyond that she was not the blowsy, loud woman I had assumed she would be. The dress was silk, tasteful, if a bit old-fashioned. With the hair and the dress, I thought she rather looked like the bad girl in some old black and white film, the one who sashayed into the private eye’s rundown office to hire him. And in the end of the film, she tried to murder someone. The detective. Her husband. Somebody.

She was not, of course, wearing the pearl and diamond necklace.

I realised that it had been a couple of minutes since I had seen Sherlock and my eyes scanned the room quickly, spotting our client, who was standing on the far side of the dance floor. But there was no sign of Sherlock. I slipped out of the ballroom and into the back corridor. No one. There was only one other door, which was at the far end of the corridor and I approached it slowly.

I eased it open and peered into semi-darkness. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, looking like some kind of bloody James Bond. He was talking to a big ginger guy in an ill-fitting tux. “We’ll just wait until your contact shows up, shall we?” he said pleasantly.

A grunt was the only response.

I slipped inside.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said and I thought he sounded pleased to have me there. Maybe.

“Everything all right?”

“Oh, perfectly. Show Mr Bigelow your gun, please, just so he knows we’re serious and then step over into the shadow.”

I pulled the weapon from the back of my stupid cummerbund and did as requested. Of course. Sherlock gestured at Bigelow until he had moved to the edge of the room, very close to where I stood with gun in hand. Sherlock stood on the other side the man, almost hidden.

It was only a minute before the door opened again. I was probably the only one surprised when the wife of our client stepped into the room, closing the door softly. In that first moment, before her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw only Bigelow. “The years have not been very kind to you, Eddie,” she said.

Bigelow glanced towards where Sherlock was standing before speaking. “Not everyone can find a rich sucker to marry.” 

“True. Only the smart ones.” The woman suddenly became aware that she and Bigelow were not alone in the room and before either Sherlock or I could move, a small but deadly looking little pistol was pulled out of her glittery evening bag. “Who the hell…?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said stepping out of the shadows. Drama queen. “Your loving husband employed me to find your necklace. I assume he never thought to check your bag.”

Sure enough, she dropped the bag and the necklace spilled out onto the floor. She didn’t know where to point the gun, but finally decided to commit to me, no doubt because I was also armed. “He is blackmailing me,” she said, her voice sounding small and helpless now. I didn’t believe it for a minute, because her eyes were icy. “He was threatening to tell Henry about my life before. I lied to Henry about the necklace being stolen, but there was no other choice.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “A very sad story. But luckily Bigelow is a fairly stupid blackmailer.”

The man looked offended at that, naturally.

“I will not lose everything,” she said. “Understand, I will do anything to keep that from happening.”

There is no way of knowing how this whole thing would have ended up, because at that moment, the door flew open and a massive figure burst in. “Mary! What the devil is going on?”

I do not think it was intentional, really. Probably she was just so startled that her finger jerked and pulled the trigger. Unfortunately, the gun was still pointed in my direction.

The pain of a bullet going into your body is something you don’t forget. I hadn’t anyway. As I felt myself falling, the room was suddenly flooded with light and even more people rushing in. Mycroft’s men, of course. Coincidence, my arse.

With that thought, I hit the floor.

Amidst all the noise, one sound rose above everything else, at least to me.

“John! John! Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right!”

I looked up at Sherlock, who was bending over me, as his hands patted frantically all over my body, either trying to find the wound or to comfort me. Or both, maybe. He was staring at my face and when I looked into his eyes I was stunned by the naked emotion I could see there. How had I ever doubted that he cared for me?

No, I must be honest with myself. I looked into his eyes and I realised that Sherlock Holmes loved me.

And then I passed out.

*

By the time I was fully aware again, it was late the next day and the whole case had been neatly tied up. My left side was tender beneath the bandages.

Sherlock was sitting next to the hospital bed, still wearing his tux. There was blood on his sleeves. He leaned forward and shoved some papers at me. “Here. I took notes for you,” he said. His voice was a little scratchy, as if he hadn’t spoken in a bit. He needed tea, but I knew he hated the hospital brew. “So you can write the case up.”

“Thank you,” I said. He started to pull his hand back, but I managed to wrap my fingers around it first. Despite the drugs, I remembered everything that had happened the night before. Most of all, I remembered the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he thought that I might be badly hurt.

“And thank you for staying with me.”

He blinked down at our linked hands. “Where else would I be?” It was barely a whisper.

I had been a soldier. I had chased down murderers and thieves and once I even jumped into the Thames to save an idiot from drowning. But what I did next was the bravest thing I had ever done.

Holding Sherlock’s hand, I raised it to my lips and kissed each finger in turn.

Sherlock sat very still for a long moment and then he bent over and rested his head on my chest. No one spoke.

We were still like that when the door to the hospital room opened and Mycroft came in.

His mouth opened, but then I gave him a look and he turned and left the room again.

I could feel Sherlock’s smile against my chest.

It was worth getting shot to know how much he cared. To realise that he loved me as much as I loved him. And if that sounds a bit crazy [or maybe more than a bit], that’s fine. 

After all, who would expect Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to do anything in a normal way? 

Even falling in love, apparently.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Pearls And Men by Louis Kornitzer


End file.
